


Sacrificing Isaac

by Muffie



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Angst, Episode: s04e08 The Sentinel by Blair Sandburg, M/M, Pre-Slash, Sentinel Thursday Challenge, post-TSbyBS
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-22
Updated: 2012-04-25
Packaged: 2017-11-04 02:58:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/388920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Muffie/pseuds/Muffie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of the press conference, Jim finds the letters Blair's been receiving from people who might be sentinels. Blair heads to the police academy with a hangover and Jim wonders just how much more his friend can take. He has to do something, the something Blair can no longer do. But what? </p><p>[WIP: but I have made a promise to myself to complete it with the help of the Sentinel Thursday prompt community. The beginning of the fic was first posted: February 22, 2007. The newest chapter (5) was posted April 22, 2012. Further updates are current.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wild Turkey

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from the biblical story in Genesis, where God commands Abraham to take his son, Isaac, into the mountains and sacrifice him. There are many interpretations as to _why_ God would do this, the most popular of which is for Abraham to prove his love and loyalty for God. Another interpretation from Rabbi Joseph Hertz is that child sacrifice was common for Semitic people of the time and that this was actually a way for God to show child sacrifice is abhorrent and that loyalty and love goes both ways.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim comes early from a stakeout to find Blair passed out and a stack of letters that changes everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This came about from Sentinel Thursday Challenge #180: It's a Date.

If Sandburg listed any harder to port, he would fall out of the kitchen chair and give himself a shiner on the table leg on his way down. Son of a bitch, it smelled like a package liquor store had exploded in the loft. Jim scowled and finished dropping the keys in their basket. Sandburg had to pick the night before he ships out to the Academy to pickle himself. Just goes to show where his priorities were. It wasn't like it's a date you could just forget without help and Sandburg's "help" of choice was the rest of the Wild Turkey H had left on the last poker night.

Jim set the bag of Chinese, with all of Blair's favorites, on the counter and the two bottles of the hideously expensive micro-brew that smelled like cow piss. So much for their plans. Two buddies, good take out, a good beer for Jim, micro-cow piss for Blair, and a night of ESPN.

Jim decided to let the little shit fall.

Sandburg gave out a little hiccup sound, then snuffled and twitched. Jim managed to catch him before he hit the floor. The acrid stench of the whisky leaking out of Sandburg's pores and the front of his tee shirt rolled over Jim in waves, bringing the sting of tears to his eyes. "Jesus Christ, Sandburg. Did you bathe in the stuff or what?"

Sandburg's head lolled.

"C'mon, Chief. Time for all good little drunks to be in their beds." 

He manhandled Sandburg into his bed under the stairs with no help from the great drunk himself. The ratty sweats and Wild Turkey soaked tee shirt were comfortable enough, so Jim just covered Sandburg with a blanket, tucked it around his shoulders, and set the alarm two hours earlier. Narrowing his eyes at the curly tufts of hair sticking every which way around the slack face, he moved the alarm clock and its snooze button well out of reach. Smoothing a piece of hair out of Sandburg's face, Jim shook his head and sighed. "You're really going to hate tomorrow, buddy."

Sandburg just lay there and drooled.

Jim helped himself to some of the Chinese and a bottle of the good beer. He stowed the rest in the fridge. The television held no appeal so he headed for the table. He tossed the empty bottle of Wild Turkey into the recycle bin and straightened the pile of paper Sandburg had spread all over the table like a broken bale of straw.

_Dear Mr. Sandburg,_

The fact that it was hand-written with a "dear" when the usual mail was typed and, since the pr— _that_ day, usually hateful. There were tearstains on the thing. He frowned and flicked his eyes toward Sandburg's hole under the stairs. Tears, drunk Sandburg. Invasion of privacy nothing.

_Dear Mr. Sandburg,_

_I am writing this in hopes that you can help my brother, Josh. He's 22 years old and he's been an inpatient at Fairfax in Kirkland for four years. He was diagnosed with atypical schizophrenia with sensory hallucinations and pseudo-seizures just over three and a half years ago. Before that, they couldn't give us a firm diagnosis. Nothing the doctors do seems to help. He's been on every drug the doctors can think of and it only makes things worse. I wouldn't be writing this except that I've read some of the excerpts of the book that you were going to publish and they could have been written about Josh. His psychiatrist, Dr. Baker, thinks that these Sentinels that you wrote about are just myths and don't truly exist. It does seem impossible, but the things Josh has said that Dr. Baker can't explain are just as impossible. He can repeat, verbatim, conversations I've had with hospital staff that he couldn't possibly have heard. There are other things, but that's the one thing he used to do all the time. I'm losing him. He spends most of his time in a fugue state, almost like he's in a coma with his eyes open. They've had to put him on a respirator since he fell into one of these comas yesterday and hasn't come out of it. People aren't supposed to die from schizophrenia._

_Please, Mr. Sandburg, if you know anything that can help Josh, please let me know. Even though Sentinels aren't real, maybe you know something about senses that can help him. I have some money saved so I can pay for your help. You can reach me at 425-555-7893. If I don't answer, please leave a message. I hope to hear from you soon and thanks for reading this._

_Sincerely,_

_Kim Travers_

Jim carefully placed the letter to the side and rubbed his face. Shit. Just, just shit. The pad of paper he'd piled Sandburg's scattered papers on had the makings of the last letter in the stack.

_Dear Ms. Travers,_

_Unlike Dr. Baker, I can't say that Sentinels are only myths. I can't say they aren't either. I've never met one. From the studies I've done of people who've reported one or sometimes two senses much stronger than the average person, I can say that there are people who can sense things that don't seem possible. If your brother does have hyperactive senses, then_

Sandburg apparently hadn't liked it because he'd crossed it out.

_Dear Ms. Travers,_

_I hope your brother is doing well and no longer in the fugue state._

_I don't know how much help I can be, since I've never met a Sentinel or anyone who has. I have read a lot about the Sentinel myth that can explain what your brother might be experiencing. These fugue states you've described, for example, resemble the reports of what has been called the zone out factor. A Sentinel with hyperactive senses can get lost in them. If he concentrates too much on a single sense he can_

_Burton not, Jim. Burton, not Jim!_

_Richard Burton, the explorer, reported that Sentinels could become lost in their senses if they weren't careful. He didn't mention how_

He didn't know if Sandburg liked this one or not since it just petered out, but he'd be willing to be this is the draft he went with. He flipped the page.

_Dear Kim,_

_I wish I could tell you what a wonderful gift a Sentinel is to humanity. I wish I could to tell you about their bravery and their courage. I wish I could tell you that knowing a Sentinel is the most awesome thing that ever happened to me. I wish I could tell you what I learned about Sentinels. I wish I could tell you that your brother is this incredible guy who takes care of his tribe, that it's not the senses that are a blessing or a gift for him, but him that's a gift to his tribe. I wish I could tell you what it means for your brother to be Sentinel, if that's what he truly is. I wish I could show you how much of a gift he is, that he's not crazy. I wish I could help y_

He flipped the page, and then another. The rest of the pad was blank. 

He dropped the pad onto the papers and frowned at the open door leading to muted heartbeats and soft breathing. He crossed the room in four strides and snatched up the phone. Dialing through outgoing calls on caller ID, he found that Kim Travers had been called about two hours ago. Enough time for Sandburg to have a short conversation, argue with himself, and then get sloshed when he lost the argument.

Jim looked at Sandburg's door again. Yeah, he could spare the time to get up first, make some coffee and then wake Sandburg up. Better than an alarm clock when you had a hangover.


	2. Oatmeal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blair heads for the academy and Jim tries not to be obvious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This came about from Sentinel Thursday Challenge #181: First Day of School.

"Up and at 'em, Chief." Jim poked Sandburg in the shoulder. "C'mon, you look like a drooling Cocker Spaniel. Rise and shine."

Sandburg's eyes cracked open and he smacked lips and tongue. Must be kind of fuzzy in there. The eyes shut again and he snorted into his drool pillow.

Jim smirked. Very cute. He considered taking a picture and putting up on the board in the bull pen. Conner would love it. Nah, too much work. He waved the cup of fresh coffee near Sandburg's nose. "You're burning daylight, Chief."

The eyes opened again, focusing on the cup. "Jim?"

"Expecting someone else?"

Sandburg wrinkled his nose and tried shoving himself into a sitting position. He winced and rubbed at his temple with the left hand. He stuck the right hand out imperiously. "Coffee."

Jim forked the coffee over before he lost a limb. "I live to serve. How's the head?"

"Fuzzy."

Jim grinned. He ruffled Sandburg's hair. "Not for much longer."

Sandburg ducked and winced. "Not funny, man."

"It's not basic training, Chief. They'll let you keep it." 

Sandburg's face puckered up, like a little boy eating his first gooseberry. Conner would probably call this one of those awww, how cute moments or something Aussie. "And you couldn't have told me this earlier? You're evil, man. Evil."

"Part of the service." Jim headed for the door. "I got you up a few minutes early so you'd have plenty of time to wallow in the shower." He smirked, just to annoy Sandburg. "I left plenty of cold water."

"You missed your calling as a comedian."

"You know, it's wit like that, that makes me wanna rethink my altruism. I can get the camera out before you manage to haul your ass out of bed. You know Conner would pay big bucks to see your Golden Retriever impression. The drool is a nice touch." 

Sandburg flopped back on the pillow and pressed the heels of hands to his eyes. "One of these days, when you least expect it, I'm gonna get some hazmat gear, steal H's sweat socks from the locker room, and stick 'em in your truck to ferment overnight."

"How about some bacon for breakfast?"

Sandburg just snorted.

"I can fry up a few eggs in the grease, add in some hash browns with onions, jalapenos, and some of that orange stuff Rafe said was nacho cheese sauce. Hey, Chief, why does frying up onions in grease make 'em look like tapeworms?"

Sandburg turned green and the hands went to the mouth. "Oh man, stop."

"My work here is done." Jim tossed another smirk over his shoulder, though Sandburg was too busy scrunching up around his gurgling belly to notice, and headed for the kitchen.

Nearly an hour later, a still pasty-looking if freshly washed and analgesic-ed Sandburg collapsed on a chair at the table. "My alarm was set to go off ten minutes from now, Jim."

Jim ignored that in favor of pouring boiling water into the instant, and mostly unflavored, oatmeal. He stuck a spoon into the bowl, picked it up along with the butter, and brought Sandburg's breakfast to the table. 

Sandburg was giving him the old 'oh shit!' of guilt look; his hands clenched over the neat stack of paper. "Uh, sorry about leaving this stuff out here." One of Sandburg's hands made an aborted attempt at waving over the table. "Did you, uh, look at it?"

"Kind of hard not to look at it, Chief. I couldn't put it in a nice, neat stack ready to be put away where it belongs instead of scattered all over the kitchen without looking. Plain oatmeal, buddy. It should go down easy and you'll need the carbs."

"I meant read it."

Jim put on his best offended glare. "I'm not a complete throwback to pre-civilized man. I can remember the invasion of privacy lecture without the cave paintings."

Incensed on a hung over Sandburg looked more like indigestion. "Man, I did not call you a caveman. Pre-civilized means humans, as in homo sapiens like the rest of us, living in societies and environments that don't—"

"You can eat and lecture at the same time, Chief."

"You just don't want to hear it, Jim."

Jim reached out and fluffed the hair. "You're learning, Sandburg."

Sandburg's scent shifted into something, well, slightly more alkaline considering the acridness of the whiskey still leaching out of his skin. He stirred the oatmeal. "Yeah. I can be taught."

Jim wondered if he should say something, maybe get into one of those sharing moments Sandburg was always into. They could get a few things out in the open and do some heavy duty processing. And Sandburg would get into a traffic accident on the way to the Academy because he was doing more processing and doing less paying attention to the road. Yeah, he was skipping out on the emotional bonding thing for Sandburg's physical health. He ruffled Sandburg's hair again, even though three times in an hour was a little over the top, even for the big brother routine. "Eat, Sandburg. Your paperwork all together?"

Sandburg gave him a dirty look. "I still don't know how I enrolled in college without you there to make sure I had my paperwork together. And all that paperwork for grants? Boggles the mind, big guy."

"You could have just said yes."

"You could have just not asked."

"Just like you could have cleaned your hair out of the shower drain, but you didn't."

"Hey, where's Oscar without his Felix?"

"You got it backwards, Einstein. Oscar was the slob."

Sandburg smiled beatifically. "And Felix was the maid service."

Jim rolled his eyes. "I am _not_ your maid. Eat."

"If I can be your administrative assistant, you can be my maid. Speaking of which, don't conveniently forget again that you have physical therapy at eleven with," Sandburg minced his hands together, using most of his arms to flaunt his non-existent breasts, and fluttered his eyelashes, "Marla." The little shit blew a few simpering kisses for effect.

"I could always go with you. Make sure you play nice with all the other kids on the first day of kindergarten, junior."

"The principal would have to call Simon to bail you out of detention."

"How's the head?"

"Doing better. Since you got me up at the butt crack of three in the morning, I've got plenty of time to stop off for smoothie on the way." Sandburg chewed, or whatever it was you did with oatmeal, thoughtfully. "Is this where the interrogation starts?"

Jim frowned. "Am I going to have to start hauling your ass to AA meetings?"

"No."

"Then I won't bother to lock up the liquor."

Sandburg slammed the spoon down. "Son of a bitch. You read them."

He thought about denying it for a few seconds, but.... "Just the Travers one."

Sandburg slumped in his chair. "You shouldn't have done it."

"Look, Chief." Jim struggled to come up with something to say that didn't sound like he stole it from the Lifetime channel. The usual punch in the shoulder, offer of beer and to take in a game, he could do. He knew how to be there for a guy who was down in the dumps. This, though? He usually left the inspirational bullshit to Sandburg. "Life is shit sometimes. You just got to suck it up and drive on because somewhere down the road, it'll get better."

"I can't believe you just told me to suck it up and drive—"

"Let me finish. I understand, Blair. Okay? I get it. It's a shitty situation and there's nothing we can do but do our best and hope it's the right thing." He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in his chair. "I know you, Chief. You'll do your best and it will be good enough."

Sandburg's mouth hung open, a touch of oatmeal caught on his lip. "You mean that?"

"I mean it."

Sandburg smiled again, this time one of his crooked, pleased smiles. "Thanks, man."

Jim smiled back. "So, you got all your paperwork together?"

"Yes, Mom. Dad even signed the field trip permission slip for me."

"Good."

"Yeah, good."

They stared at each other. Jim snatched up the empty bowl and headed for the sink. Sandburg pushed away from the table and collected the butter. Jim turned on the water while Sandburg put the butter away. 

Jim scrubbed at the bowl. "It's about that time, isn't it?"

Sandburg had about thirty minutes leeway and they both knew it. Sandburg sighed. "I'll be back Friday night."

Jim dropped the bowl and turned off the water. "Yeah."

"Yeah," Sandburg echoed, leaning against the counter. 

He'd had this moment all planned out. They'd exchange a few lighthearted quips and he'd give Sandburg some inspirational hair ruffling. Maybe a manly shoulder squeeze or something. Now, it felt like something out of a sappy camera commercial. Fuck it. "Here."

Sandburg wrinkled up. "Huh?"

He pulled what would have been a funny joke out of the cabinet he'd stashed it in and held it out. "Don't say I never gave you anything, Sandburg."

"Oh man, you shouldn't have. I mean that." Sandburg took the plastic Robin lunchbox from him and grinned. It was a bit wobbly, but he pretended not to notice. "If I'm Robin, that makes you Batman. Does that make Simon Commissioner Gordon or Alfred?"

"I can't picture Simon as a butler."

"Nah, but it'd sure get his goat." Sandburg traced his finger over Robin's face. Robin was done in animation style, with spiky hair and white triangular eyes set in the mask. Sandburg's grin melted into the pleased smile. "Thanks, Jim."

"You call me if you've got any problems, okay?"

"You'll be the first."

"Okay."

"Okay." Sandburg nodded to himself. "Well, I better get going."

"Yeah, probably."

They stared at each other.

Sandburg suddenly laughed. "We're friends, man. We can do the hug with the manly back thumping and it'll be okay. You won't lose your membership to the guy club. Swear."

Jim wrapped his arm around the little shit's neck and gave him a solid noogie. "Call me and let me know how things are going. Simon worries, you know."

"He's not the only one."

"Yeah, yeah."

"You be careful, too, man."

Jim scowled. "Yeah, you never know when desk duty will bite you on the ass."

Sandburg laughed and moved toward the door, where his backpack slumped. "You don't get saddle sores from a chair." He shrugged into his jacket and picked up his pack. 

"Drive safe, Chief."

"You too, man."

Sandburg smiled again, for a moment, then slipped through the door. Jim turned back to the sink with the empty bowl.


	3. Bran Bagels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim tries to figure out what to do about the letters. Simon gets involved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This came about from Sentinel Thursday Challenge #278: Primary Colours.

Jim slipped into the bullpen earlier these days just to avoid the Hairboy ready for the academy? gauntlet. He figured that Sandburg's first day would make the interrogations worse. They wouldn't be satisfied with the usual, "It's just like finals week, with less hair," cock and bull story anymore. They'd want pictures. He didn't have pictures.

He had _letters_.

He'd taken the chance right after Sandburg had left and sniffed them out in his room, hunting them down by the scent of tears. And wasn't that disturbing? He'd run down to a 24 hour copy center and copied everything before stuffing the letters back where he'd found them.

How do you tell the few friends Sandburg had left that he was doing fine when he still registered on a breathalyzer? How do you tell them that everything was going just fine when he had photocopies of evidence that just when you thought you couldn't go any lower, you find out that you can still get flushed down the crapper?

Jim slunk past the empty desks to sit at his own. He booted up his computer and contemplated the red box around today's date on his desk calendar. He leaned back in his chair to contemplate the ceiling instead.

He ignored the creak of the elevator stopping and rattle-whoosh of the doors sliding open. He ignored the scent of Simon's aftershave and morning cigar. He ignored the quiet footsteps, still uneven and stiff from not-quite-healed body parts, even though they made a line straight for him. He stared at the tiny holes in the ceiling panels instead.

"Kid get off okay this morning?"

And so it begins. Jim sighed and rubbed his face. "Yeah."

Simon stood there for several minutes, not moving. "My office, Ellison."

Jim dragged himself into the office and shut the door behind him. He glared at the bran bagel with—he took a tentative sniff—low fat hummus on the captain's desk to avoid looking at the captain.

"I'm trying something new." Simon poked at the thing, then looked up. "Sandburg. Talk."

Jim shrugged and continued to glare at the bagel, refusing to think of those blue eyes floating around in sea of bloodshot—he clenched his jaw. "Got off okay this morning."

"We established that. What's the problem?" Simon glared at the bagel, too.

"It's a big day."

"Your senses going out of whack?"

Jim glared at Simon this time. "I'm _fine_."

"Then the kid's not fine."

"Captain, what he did, it's gonna take me a long time to get over it."

Simon's face clouded over and the tendons in his neck strung out like bridge cables.

"No, not that! Giving up his whole life for me! His credibility! What kind of asshole do you think I am?" 

The tendons in Simon's neck relaxed, but the glower didn't go away.

Jim crossed his arms over his chest and slumped in his seat. "So I'm an asshole."

Simon didn't say anything.

"Sandburg's getting mail."

"Anyone we need to be worried about?"

"The sickos quit shortly after they quit recycling him on the evening news. Most of the hate mail is from academic types who can't let it go." Jim shook his head. "He's in danger of getting a paper cut."

Simon nodded and made a go on wave of his hand.

He closed his eyes and forced himself not to search for that single grounding heartbeat. "He's got a stack of letters from people who are probably sentinels begging for his help."

Simon's tendons came back out. "I'm not hearing this."

"There's a 22 year old kid in Kirkland with sensory hallucinations. Spends most of his time in a fugue state. Diagnosed with atypical schizophrenia. Went into a coma a few days ago and they can't get him to come out of it. They say he's dying and they don't know why."

"Son of a bitch," Simon whispered.

"There but for the grace of God and Sandburg," Jim agreed.

"How do you know he's a Sentinel?"

Jim shrugged. "Don't. The letter his sister wrote to Sandburg's convincing."

"How'd the kid take it?"

"He must have got it yesterday. Came home and he was drunk off his ass. He called her. Don't know what he said." Jim leaned forward, elbows on his thighs, and put his face in his hands. "You know how Sandburg is. Not being able to help these people? It's gotta be killing him."

Simon leaned back in his chair. "So what are you going to do?"

"I don't know."

Simon fingered the bran bagel, then pushed it away. "You said he's got a stack. How big's a stack?"

Jim shrugged. "Seventeen."

Simon shut his eyes and rubbed his temples. "I am not hearing this. This is not happening."

"Tell me about it. I photocopied the letters. Sandburg only knows I know about the one in Kirkland."

"The last time this shit happened—"

"Just because she was a psycho nutjob doesn't mean they all are. I'm not."

Simon just stared at him.

Jim glared. "I'm not."

"What are you going to do?"

"Sandburg's gone until Friday. I'm going to Kirkland. The kid's zoned out if he is a sentinel. He'll probably never come out of it, so if he's like _her_ , I won't have to deal with it." Jim's eyes shifted to the right, toward the window and the dawning sunrise. "I have to know for sure."

"If he is, what are you going to do."

Jim squeezed his eyes shut and shrugged. 

"This kid's sister, you going to tell her?"

Jim shook his head. "I can't trust her."

"You going to see her?"

"I have to, to get in to see him, yeah."

Simon took his glasses off and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I hate this shit."

Jim looked back out the window, letting his eyes unfocus enough to see nothing but the edges of yellowing daylight. "Maybe we should take a copy of the Brackett case file. Some proof that shady government characters and the senses don't mix should keep the sister's mouth shut. Especially about her brother if he is one."

"You get it out of records." Simon sighed. "We'll leave when Joel gets here. What are you gonna tell Sandburg?"

Hearing and taste spiked, for just a moment, before he wrestled them under control with the eidetic memory of Blair's heartbeat. "He's got enough to deal with right now."

Simon grunted and shifted in his chair, making it squeak and the wood groan. "You know that's gonna blow up in your face. Always does."

Jim turned just enough to glare at him. "I'll tell him Friday. When he comes home."

Simon nodded. "Good enough."

"How'd this all get so fucked up?"

Simon poked at the bagel and snorted. "Naomi."

"Says it all, doesn't it?"

Simon lifted his gaze up enough to frown. "Nope."

"What the hell?"

"I figure things have been fucked up long before she breezed into town and threw the dissertation at her friend. Otherwise the whole mess wouldn't have played out like it did." Simon's mouth turned down deeply at the corners. "You fucked up. Sandburg fucked up." Simon shrugged. "You aren't going to find the answers in Kirkland."

Jim curled his lip. "I know that. I'm going to find a sentinel in Kirkland."

"What's that going to prove?" Simon dumped the bagel in the trash, uneaten, where it would spend the day rotting.

"I don't know. Nothing. Everything. He can't help the kid, but maybe I can do something. Teach the sister about dials or something. Shit."

"Relax. I'm not out to get you. I just want to make sure you're doing it for the right reasons."

Jim's face slumped into something that felt like relief. "It's for Sandburg. So he'll know that someone did something."

"Good enough." Simon reached into his inbox and pulled out a folder. "Get the Brackett file. We'll leave as soon as Taggart gets here."

Jim stood up and wiped his palms on his pants. He wanted to smile, like a thank you, but it didn't fit on his mouth. "Thanks."

Simon glared at the paperwork. "Go."

Jim got.


	4. Anticipation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim makes arrangements with Kim Travers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This came about from Sentinel Thursday Challenge #279: Anticipation.

Jim slipped Brackett's case file into the center drawer and settled into his seat. Simon didn't look up from whatever he was reading to glare at him through the blinds. He sighed. It had taken about twenty minutes to jog down the stairs, get the file and jog back up. The sour smell of Sandburg's sweaty despair had melted into the pages, with his dose of CIA-backed reality check. That, and Sandburg had eaten a reuben the day he'd put the file together and the stench of sauerkraut and wake-up call was easy to follow. 

Jim thought about calling the Travers woman from his desk, but the day shift would be trooping in soon with their demands to know about Sandburg's trip out the door this morning. Like it was that much different from any other morning. Except the destination. And the lunch box. And the three hair rufflings, which Sandburg had not called him on. No. His desk was out. His cell phone was out. Those things weren't secure. Home? Payphone in booking? No and no.

He could hear Sandburg telling him he was paranoid and to get over it, man.

He smirked at his desk. "It's not paranoia if they're really out to get you."

Sandburg had already called the woman from home anyway, so anyone who was tracking his phone call habits would know it. Booking would force him to pay long distance fees and here, well, all the phone calls were recorded. He knew where to get his hands on the security tape, but he'd have no control over it, and more importantly who heard it, between the call and the time he stole it from the department.

He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. He ran his thumbs over the buttons and looked around the empty bull pen. He'd better do this before his cohorts could get there and start the how's hairboy vaudeville routine. Yeah, he'd better do it. Go around behind Blair's back and betray his trust and call the woman to ask her permission to see the brother. See the kid in a sanitarium who might be in that spot that he, himself had anticipated a couple of times in the dark when he'd lay in his bed feeling every individual thread of fabric in his sheets, listening to the whispers of his neighbors four blocks over, and watching the ceiling blur into focus so fine he could count the individual grains in the drywall. He reached for the dials Blair had given him before the individual fibers in his pants gave him a rash and tuned out the sounds of booking, the duty sergeant, and Rafe complaining about the cost of dry cleaning before he stabbed the call button for the elevator.

There but the grace of Sandburg.

He hitched himself up from his desk and went to Simon's office. 

Simon peered at him through his glasses, placing the paperwork he was reading neatly into its manila folder. Simon, the anti-Sandburg. Complete with the snarling, anti-sunny attitude. "What?"

"I need to call the sister and Rafe's on his way up."

Simon glared at him for a few seconds, then nodded once and returned to the papers.

Jim dropped into his favorite chair and dialed the woman's number from memory.

Four rings later, she picked up. "Hello?" She sounded wary.

"Miss Travers?"

"Yes."

He dried his free palm on his slacks. "I'm Jim Ellison, Blair Sandburg's roommate. I understand he spoke with you last night."

"We talked."

"Was he able to help?"

She didn't say anything. He could hear her breathing pause, then resume. Her heart's rhythm quickened a bit, but not much. "My brother is still comatose in Fairfax this morning, Mr. Ellison. I assume you know what's going on?"

"Yes, I do."

"I don't understand why you're calling."

Jim curled his fingers into his palm. "Blair can't meet with you about this, but I can."

There was more silence.

"Miss Travers?"

He could hear the stress of plastic being squeezed, the sounds of muscles clenching in her fingers. She sucked in a breath. "Is this some kind of _joke_? My brother is a very real person, _Detective_. I do read the papers. I do know what happened in Cascade. I'm a real person. I don't know what kind of game you're playing, but I won't play it with you."

Simon lifted his eyes to look up at him. Apparently he heard her, too.

"I'm not playing a game. I'm dead damn serious, lady. It's my neck on the chopping block."

Simon's eyebrows went up.

The Travers woman held her breath, then let it go. "Your neck? What do you mean by that? It's my brother that's dying!"

"It's nothing I can explain over the phone. I have a case file that I'd like you to see, and then I'd like to see your brother."

"A case file? One of your police cases?"

"Yes. It's important. It'll explain everything."

She took a deep breath. "What does your case have to do with my brother?"

"Maybe everything. I can't explain it over the phone." He heard her heart suddenly start galloping its way out of her chest. "I know you're thinking the worst right now, but I hope you don't. It's not drugs or some psycho that randomly picked your brother to hurt in some way the doctors haven't found yet. If you're right about your brother, you need to see this."

"Oh my God," she whispered. 

He waited, but she didn't say anything else. "I can be in Kirkland in about an hour and a half. Where would be a good place to meet you? It should be private."

"The library. I work near it. We can go there."

"The library. That's a good choice." It was very Sandburg. "Can we go see your brother after you look at the file? Right after?"

He could hear her nodding. "Yes, yes, of course."

"Good. I'd like to see him. I hope he's doing better." Jim met Simon's eyes. "I'll see you at ten," Simon nodded, "at the library. Sound good?"

"Ten."

"Right. Seen you then." He thumbed the off button on the phone before either of them could draw the conversation out into something more excruciating.

Simon settled back into his chair, making it creak. "That went well."

"Yeah. You don't have to go."

Simon grunted.

"Shit. What am I doing?"

Simon blinked twice, then pursed his lips. He settled his hands carefully over his belly. "You're either doing the right thing or digging yourself a hole you'll never get out of."

"Shit."

"It's probably the right thing." Simon shrugged. "Think of the kid."

"Which one?"

"Both of them. That kid in the loony bin isn't getting any better."

"No. And Sandburg...." Jim shook his head.

"Knows it."

"Yeah."

"Yeah."

"When did everything get so fucked up?" Jim rubbed his fingers over his forehead, pushing against the oncoming headache. "Everything was okay, once."

"Do I look like your father confessor? Or a shrink? I don't know." Simon continued to stare at him. "You don't talk to me and, frankly, I don't want to hear it. That's what you have Sandburg for."

He frowned. "I don't talk to him, either."

Simon leaned forward. "Maybe that's your answer."

Jim didn't say anything, just ran his thumb along the edge of his cell phone and thought of pressing the speed dial to Sandburg's phone. He shoved the thing in his pocket and stood up. "I'm going to catch up on paperwork until Joel gets here."

Simon picked up a piece of paper. "Good."

He waited for a heartbeat, the length of Sandburg's, then shuffled over to his desk and sat at it. He felt, well, unresolved. Sandburg would have said something by now to finish it off, whatever _it_ was. He would have said something. 

Jim opened up a file on a cold case. There wasn't anything to say.


	5. Road Trip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim and Simon drive to Kirkland and Jim meets with Kim Travers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This came about from Sentinel Thursday Challenge #115: Road Trip. Note: Burien is a place, not a person.

Driving to Kirkland from Cascade with someone who had been recently shot in the chest when your ass is killing you because you'd been shot in the leg was not something Jim considered a good time. When that someone was Simon, Jim figured he was owed hazardous duty pay. And put up with the asshole of the month pay.

Forty-five minutes into the trip, and enough bitching to get why Joan divorced him, Simon said, "I called Burien."

Jim didn't know what to say to that, so he grunted. Sandburg had only been there for a few hours.

"I told the commander that Sandburg's mother had released the diss without his permission and Sandburg threw himself to the wolves when the publisher and media wouldn't back off." Simon paused to glance at him. He stared through the windshield, jaws clenched. Simon sighed and went back to driving. "Told him that Sandburg did it because he believed it was the only way to do damage control. Same thing I told Warren."

"Warren believes the diss is true," Jim said.

Simon frowned.

"His head might be stuck up the mayor's ass half the time, but he's not stupid." Apparently. Jim looked out the side window. 

"He told you?"

Jim shrugged, even though Simon was glaring at the windshield and didn't seem him. "Overheard him bitching in his office."

"Son of a bitch." Simon gripped the steering wheel until the leather squealed. "I should have known something was hinky about getting Sandburg's badge. It was too easy."

Jim shrugged. "Your mouth to God's ear."

"What?"

"Sandburg says it sometimes. Says it's a Jewish thing when he wants to make me eat weird Jewish shit." Jim felt a smile coming on and ruthlessly suppressed it. "He says other stuff when he wants me to eat other weird ethnic shit. Seems the only ethnic food he won't eat is American."

Simon did smile. "Little shit."

"What'd Burien say?"

Simon's smile went away. "Said he doesn't listen to rumors and he doesn't give special treatment to cadets, good or bad. I told him that I didn't give a shit about coddling the kid but I was concerned about hazing. Said he'd keep an eye out."

Jim snorted. "Right. Commanders never see what's going on right under their noses."

Simon glowered at him. "You got something to say, Ellison?"

"You're not a commander, _Captain_." Jim tried not to wince. "I meant that commanders like the guy at Burien, or Warren. They sit in their shiny offices and polish their noses on someone's ass. They don't see the shit the rank and file throw at each other." Jim slanted a glance at Simon, wishing the man would keep his eyes on the fucking road. "You're in the shit with the rest of us. Except budget time."

Simon turned back to the road and stared at it.

Jim watched the scenery go by.

"Jim."

"What?"

"You think this kid might be one of you?"

Jim didn't say anything, just sighed.

"Yeah," Simon said. "Thought so." He turned on the blinker and exited into downtown Kirkland. It was quiet in the car for the thirty minutes or so it took him to find the library, and then a parking spot and park. "Jim. If he is, what are you going to do?"

Jim shrugged. "Help him."

"About Sandburg."

Jim closed his eyes and dropped his head against the backrest. "Help him, too."

Simon snorted and yanked his keys out of the ignition. 

"Fine, _sir_." Jim snatched up the Brackett file and opened the door. "I don't know what in the fuck I'm going to do, but I'm going to do _something_." He got out and slammed the door.

Simon climbed out of the car. "Jim—"

"I know I fucked up. I know the whole goddamned situation is fucked up. And there's not a fucking thing I can do about it. In fact, I don't think there was a single fucking thing I could have done about it, no matter what, except to go back in time and tell Sandburg no, in fact, he could not write his dissertation about me." Jim threw his hand out, ala Sandburg, to drive home his point and because there wasn't anything he could hit. "Maybe this whole fucked up situation was inevitable, _sir_. It's not like he could have kept the dissertation secret. He would be expected to publish it somewhere." Jim shook the Brackett file at Simon. " _This_ should have told us everything. And maybe we could have avoided everything if we'd been paying attention. If _I'd_ been paying attention. Sandburg's a fucking puppy. I knew. I fucking _knew_."

Simon sighed and didn't say anything.

Jim ducked his head, clenched his free hand into a fist, and did some deep breathing exercises to keep himself from exploding all over the place like a frag grenade.

Simon stuck a cigar in his mouth, but didn't light it. "I hear you."

Goddamned Sandburgs giving everyone new age hippy cooties.

Simon looked around. "Let's do this thing. We'll figure it out as we go along."

Once inside the library, Jim found the woman who had to be Travers immediately. She was standing near a rack full of newspapers, half hiding herself and watching the entrance nervously. Simon was looking around, wearing his best, congenial expression. Jim watched her. She watched him. 

"I'm going to go sit at that table in the corner," Jim said. "Let her approach me. I'll wave you over if I need help."

He didn't stick around for a reply. Instead, he waggled the file and tilted his head toward the table, sitting off by itself in a corner between a bank of windows and the stacks. She looked that way, then back at him, frowning. He headed there, took his wallet out and sat down. He flipped open the badge and placed it on the table next to the file.

She edged her way over and inspected the badge. "Detective Ellison."

"Miss Travers."

Her frown deepened. "How did you know it was me?"

"Your heart was the only one beating like crazy."

She looked at him, open-mouthed, her fingers fluttering to the center of her chest, where her heart was still trying to pound its way out of her ribcage.

He tucked his badge away in his pocket. "Yes, I can still hear your heartbeat."

She narrowed her eyes.

"I know you don't believe me," he said. He could smell it. "And it doesn't matter."

Her back stiffened and her chin came up. "Why not?"

"I'm not your brother." He turned the file, so it would be right side up to her, and flipped open the first page. A picture of a suited Lee Brackett stared up at them both. "His name is Lee Brackett. He's a CIA agent, or was before he went rogue."

"What does he have to do with Josh?"

"He wanted to steal a prototype spy plane to sell to the highest bidder. He used me to do it."

She took the seat across from him and tugged the file closer.

Jim closed his eyes. "The Air Force had the plane in a secret location that was accessible only if you knew a few secret patterns, or if you could sense low electrical impulses on a bridge. It was a really stupid security measure, but Brackett knew about my senses. He'd read Blair Sandburg's work in a few anthropology journals and somehow connected it to me. Figured out that I have heightened senses."

She blinked. "You're claiming that you really are a sentinel. That Mr. Sandburg was right about you."

Jim swallowed the bile in the back of his throat, and stared her down. "Yes."

"But I don't understand, why—"

"Because Lee Brackett isn't the only person out there who would think of using me, and people like me, to do things."

She looked down at the file. "Mr. Sandburg told me about wine tasters and perfume company workers."

"Miss Travers, I can hear your heart beating. On a good day, I can read a newspaper from over a thousand feet away. I can smell traces of substances that dogs miss. There are some parts of our government that aren't very nice. Blair," Jim used a finger to push the file just a bit closer to her, "he did the best he could to protect me." He smiled. "He always thinks the best of humanity, even after three years of riding around with me, solving crimes. All he's ever wanted was to find a sentinel, and to help. People like Brackett, he never really got the idea that they exist."

"But his press conference?"

"It wasn't about protecting me from the Bracketts of the world. It was about getting the press off my back and giving me my privacy."

"Oh." She leaned back in her chair. "And you think Josh might be like you."

"People with auditory hallucinations don't hear things happening in the real world. I'm no shrink, but even I know that."

She was back to frowning, but this time thoughtfully. "When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."

"That's pretty much policework in a nutshell."

"If he can repeat conversations I've had hundreds of feet away, through the walls, it's not possible that it's an auditory hallucination. That means he must be hearing me, somehow."

"Yes."

"I'll take you to see him."


	6. Clouded Leopard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim visits Kim's brother in the hospital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This came about from Sentinel Thursday Challenge #433: cloud.

Jim didn't flinch when they followed Kim into the Evergreen hospital parking lot rather than Fairfax. He didn't know which was worse, an institution for psychos or an institution to warehouse coma patients. At least it wasn't a hospice. He climbed out of the car and looked up at the rows of windows on the building. _It's not me._ But it could have been. So easily, this could have been him. He clenched his teeth together and headed toward the sidewalk, where Kim waited. 

And just like that, Jim didn't have to go into the hospital to know. He didn't have to have that creepy sensation of a sniper rifle pointed at his back that meant "Alex" to know. The clouded leopard limping its way toward him with pitiful mews and ragged fur told him everything.

He stopped, closed his eyes, and pushed down the deepening sensation of loss that was trying to crawl out of his heart and strangle him.

Simon stopped, too. "Jim?"

Jim opened his eyes. "He’s a sentinel."

Kim, who was waiting a little further along the sidewalk, closer to the doors, frowned at them both. She did a lot of frowning.

Simon scowled. "How do you know? We haven't seen this kid."

Jim's shoulders hunched a little, he couldn't stop them, and he look up at the windows above the doors. In one of those rooms, a zoned out sentinel was laying, pumped full of drugs and a feeding tube, lost in one of his senses, just waiting for someone to wake him up. Or for his body to shut down. "Pretty much the same way I knew about Alex, though I didn't know what I was seeing then, not enough to know what it meant." _I see his spirit animal_ , Jim didn't say. Simon wouldn't appreciate it. Blair would, but not Simon. Not Jim, either, now that he thought about it.

"Well, shit," Simon said. And didn't that just say it all?

Jim started walking forward. "Let's get this over with."

Kim shifted to block their path. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Jim said.

Simon gave her a gentle smile, the same kind of smile he used with nervous victims who weren't very traumatized. "This is a bit difficult for Jim."

She looked between the two of them suspiciously, then nodded. "Okay. Just don't upset my brother."

Jim nodded. 

No one said anything as Kim led them through the hospital, to a quiet ward. A desk was manned by a male nurse with blond hair and features bracketed by smile lines. He looked up from his computer, looked at Jim and Simon curiously, and then smiled at Kim. "Kim! It's great to see you."

Her returning smile wasn't nearly as effusive. "Any change?"

His face fell into a concerned expression. He shook his head. "I'm sorry. Dr. Hannigan won't be in for a few hours. Bringing friends to see Josh?"

She nodded. "This is Jim, a, um, friend from Cascade."

"I'll just wait here," Simon said. He moved over to one of the couches in the waiting area and dropped into it.

The nurse just smiled. "You can stay as long as you like, Kim." 

Kim went to a closed door. She put her hand on it, as if seeking a heartbeat in the wood. "If he is, you know, like you, can you help him?"

He had no idea. Sandburg was the genius. But, maybe? "I think so."

She pushed the door open and took him into the room. It was a generic hospital room, with monitors, beeping, the usual uncomfortable hospital bed, and a couple of equally uncomfortable chairs for guests. Nothing unexpected. The still body on the bed, though, was like a punch in the stomach. 

Kim crossed the room and combed her fingers through the hair on her brother's head. "Hi, Josh. I've brought a visitor. His name is Jim."

Jim closed the door behind him and joined her. Josh had a feeding tube in his nose, an IV in his left arm, and a few monitors. Other than that, he looked like a man sleeping in a hospital bed. He smelled dusty, though, as if he was shedding all of his body instead of just the top layer of skin.

"I wish Blair was here," he muttered.

Kim looked up from the covers she was fussing with. "What?"

"My partner. He would be helpful right about now."

"Oh. Mr. Sandburg."

"Yeah. We have to figure out which sense he zoned on."

Kim paused in blanket smoothing. "You think he's..." She swallowed. "You think he's like you."

"He is. Right now, he's lost in one of his senses. Sandburg would know how to bring him around." Jim shoved his hand through his hair. "It's kind of a process of elimination, to figure out which one he's zoned on. We have to use a sense he's not zoned on to bring him out."

She was quiet for a few moments. Processing, probably. She took Josh's hand in hers and cleared her throat. "Which sense would that be?" She probably thought she hid it well, but the disbelief was clear in the timber of her voice and set of her shoulders. 

Jim scratched his chin. "Well, it's probably hearing or sight. Maybe smell. Probably not touch or taste. With touch, he'd have to be touching something and with taste, he'd have to have something in his mouth. The others, it could be anything in the environment that’s in his range, which happens a lot."

"So how do we bring him out of this, ah, zone?"

"Taste," Jim decided. "We need to find something with a strong taste, something he wouldn't have every day, and put it on his tongue."

"What do you suggest?" Her voice was hardening a bit more. Perhaps she was regretting this.

Jim looked around the room. There wasn't anything to eat. There were various things in the room, but he was hesitant to stick a non-food thing in someone's mouth. "Do you have any gum or mints?"

"No. I have lip gloss."

“I’ll see what I can find.” Jim wandered through the room, and into the attached restroom. He found a grooming kit, one without a razor or dental floss. He pulled a toothbrush out, and toothpaste. He put a dab of toothpaste on the brush and brought it back. 

Kim frowned. Again.

"I'm going to put this on his tongue. Talk to him. Touch him like you've been doing, and ask him to come back. Follow you back. That kind of thing. He doesn't know me, so he might not listen to me, but he'll listen to you." God, he hoped this worked.

She nodded. "Josh, it's Kim. Come back to me Josh."

"Good, just keep talking to him."

"Okay. Hey Josh, it's Kim. I'm here and I love you."

Feeling like he'd fallen flat on his face in the Twilight Zone, Jim gently pried Josh's mouth open enough to stick the bristles of the toothbrush into his mouth. Goosebumps rose on his skin and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. This was _wrong_. Not wrong like Alex was wrong, but wrong like he wasn't supposed to be there wrong. 

In the corner of the room, the clouded leopard hunched and yowled. Jim tried to ignore it.

"Josh, come back to me Josh," Kim said. She patted his cheeks and ruffled his hair. "I know you can hear me. Quit messing around and come back."

"Tell him to follow your voice."

She looked at him like he was an idiot. 

Jim shrugged. "It helps me."

"This happens to you?"

He focused on the bristles of the toothbrush, swiping it across the kid’s tongue carefully. "All the time."

She looked at her brother. "Oh. Do you hear that, bro? You're not the only one who takes off for la-la land. Come back to me so I can introduce you to Jim, here. Follow my voice and come back to the real world."

Jim wrinkled his face up. Even though it was a tiny bead of white, keeping the toothpaste on the kid's tongue so it wouldn't gag him was a little bit tricky. The kid was starting to drool. 

"Come on back, Josh," Kim said.

The tongue twitched under the toothbrush and spit, then the kid swallowed. And coughed.

"Josh!"

The kid's face twitched.

"Not so loud," Jim said.

"C'mon, bro, come back to me. Come on. Open your eyes. You can do it. Come back, come back, come back." Kim's tone had changed, Jim noticed. The humoring-Jim vibe was gone and the insistence was there, instead. "C'mon Josh. It's me. Follow my voice back. C'mon, follow my voice. You can do it."

The kid blinked. 

Jim pulled the toothbrush out and stepped back.

"Josh, Josh." Kim was tearing up now. The saline scent was irritating.

"Khi...?" 

"Josh!" She put her head on the pillow next to the kid. "Oh God, Josh." And she openly wept.

Jim swallowed past the stinging in his throat and closed his eyes.


End file.
